


Pepperoni With Extra Cheese

by little_shadow_1986



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:48:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21765550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_shadow_1986/pseuds/little_shadow_1986
Summary: Delivering pizza has never been so much fun.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	Pepperoni With Extra Cheese

Thursday nights were always a little slow. It was the night before the weekend really threw the place into chaos, and most people were either still living off of leftovers from earlier in the week, or opting for that Chinese joint that offered extra dumplings and fried wantons with every chow mein dish purchased between five and eight on Thursday. So yeah, business was a little slow.  
Not that you minded. The books were a mess that you never seemed to get on top of, and nights like this gave you a chance to at least pretend like you were trying to make progress on the conundrum of why your pepperoni expenses were so much higher than your electricity bill. You suspected it had something to do with the fact that the pepperoni was your bestseller, but still, maybe it was time to look into negotiating some sort of agreement with your supplier.  
Out in the shop, you could hear Carl taking someone's order at the counter, while Lou in the kitchen called out pizzas ready to go. With everything under control, you were free to continue crunching numbers and plotting ways to get cheaper sausage.  
At least, you were until the phone rang.  
Three rings. Then five. Then eight. You could hear Carl still taking an order from a customer who couldn't seem to make up their mind on the difference between a deep dish and a pie.  
Hustling out from your office before the caller could hang up, you pounced on the phone and forced a grin back onto your face so the caller wouldn't hear your frustration.  
“Leon's Little Slice of Italy, what can I get you tonight?”  
“Hey, Y/N, it's Clint. Barton. Clint Barton.” You stifled a laugh at the obvious pause as Clint silently reprimanded himself for sounding like this was only the second time you'd ever spoken to him, before he cleared his throat to continue, “Can I get the usual? Large pep -"  
“Pepperoni with extra cheese, mozzarella sticks and boneless wings for Lucky. You got it. I'll even throw in some donut holes, you know, for my favorite customer.”  
There was a sinful groan of appreciation that rumbled down the line and sent a shudder down your spine then simmered in the pit of your stomach like warm honey on a gas burner.  
“I fucking love you. You're the best.”  
You snorted a disbelieving laugh as you rolled your eyes, even though your heart was somersaulting erratically at the sound of those words. “Hang up and tell me this when you're sober,” you huffed a laugh and sighed. “It'll be about twenty minutes. Don't try and pay in dollar bills again like last time.”  
The sound of Clint's chuckles bubbled through the receiver as you hung up, shaking your head fondly.  
Clint had been one of your regulars since before you inherited the business from your father when he retired six years ago. Multiple orders a week, almost always the same thing. Always with something extra for Lucky, even though you knew Clint was sharing the pizza with the one eyed dog. Before taking on ownership, you delivered pizzas for your dad, and Clint had been the highlight of your evening whenever he placed an order. You knew the address like you knew your own phone number, and it hadn't taken long for you to figure out he was only a year or two older than you, and that he really was that guy you'd seen on the news gallivanting around with the Avengers. Pretty soon after that, you knew all about his favorite color, his obsession with ‘Dog Cops', his caffeine addiction (he answered the door with a pot of coffee in hand once, and thought nothing of taking a swig directly from it), and his former life with the circus. Nothing had been off limits, and you'd been one of the first people Lucky had taken an immediate shine to shortly after Clint rescued him. But, despite all that, all of your contact with Clint had been limited to the nights where he ordered in.  
“I'll get this one sorted and run it on over, Lou,” you whipped your apron on without breaking stride as you entered the kitchen and retrieved a ball of dough to start rolling it out. “Didn't expect there to be a rush at this time of night.”  
Coughing up a laugh, Lou rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, bet you're real cut up about it. Bet I know exactly where that pizza's heading, too. Grin on your face kinda says it all.”  
You scoffed, but said nothing as you started stretching the dough knuckle over knuckle, doing your best to ignore Lou’s chuckles of amusement.

It was less than a five minute trip to Clint’s apartment in Bed-Stuy, a route that you'd taken so many times over the years that you could probably walk it with your eyes closed. Like always, a grin stealthily crept onto your face every step closer you got. By the time you knocked at his door, you were practically radiating with the glee in your smile, and you didn't care whether he could see it or not; you were actually hopeful that maybe this time, he would realise the effect he had on you so you wouldn't have to bite the bullet and just tell him.  
“Coming! Just a sex! SEC! JUST A SEC!” You heard a muffled curse groaned in embarrassment followed by shuffling and some more mumbling as Clint ushered Lucky out of the way, before the door swung open, framing the blonde archer as he leaned against it casually with a lazy grin that belied the chaos just moments before. “Perfect timing as always. Not busy tonight?”  
“Huh? Oh...no, not really. Typical Thursday really.” You shrugged, then cleared your throat as you tried to focus on anything but the way his sweat pants hung loosely on his hips, revealing a hint of the faded lavender cotton briefs underneath every time he raised his arm to scratch the back of his neck or tousle his short, scruffy hair. “You're not as drunk as I thought you were. Usually it takes at least a couple of beers before you start dishing out declarations of love.”  
Clint's face ignited with a radiant shade of pink that pooled in his cheeks and flourished on his throat as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly while you smirked. “Ah...yeah...that...I'll admit I'm not proud of that. No one should be that happy about free donut holes. But they're so good!”  
Passing him the pizza box loaded up with all the extras, you grinned and gave a playful bow. “I'd love to take total ownership of the compliment but, I gotta share the kudos with Lou. He usually makes them, I can only claim responsibility for the recipe.”  
You were walking inside without an invitation as you spoke, and Clint closed the door behind you without hesitation while Lucky flitted about your feet begging for a scratch between the ears. It was a dance you were both so well rehearsed in that it came as easy as the conversation that flowed. As long as there were no awkward silences, you could ignore the butterflies cartwheeling in your stomach from being near him. You could only wonder if he ever felt the same way, or if the attraction was entirely one-sided, and all the niceties were his way of scoring free desserts.  
He must have been freshly showered, because he smelled more like soap and clean linen than the familiar cologne of sweat and coffee stains you were used to. It was intoxicating either way, and you battled to stay upright when he brushed past you to reach for his wallet on the kitchen island behind you, enveloping you in his unique perfume.  
“Fourteen sixty-seven, right?” Clint started fishing out notes, your eyes fixated on his wallet with eyebrow hooked skyward as he counted them out. “Nine. Ten. Eleven.”  
“Clint! Not again!” you exclaimed, laughter menacing your words. “Every time I get back to the shop and load up the till with a wad of ones, they all think I'm doing way more than just delivering pizza. My dignity can't hack it any more!”  
Clint looked up, clasping the fourteen Washingtons in his palm, and paused as though he hadn't considered this before. You weren't fooled, though; he knew damn well exactly what he was doing. Lucky whined impatiently for his treats, forcing a laugh from both of you.  
“Okay, okay. Here,” he passed you a ten and five ones as he chuckled, fanning himself with the remaining dollar bills in his hand. “Now what am I supposed to do with all of these huh?”  
A cheeky grin tugged at the corner of your lips. “You could invest them in some shares in Stark Industries.”  
“And never see a cent of them back again? No thanks,” he cackled as he beamed impishly at your teasing. “Come on, help me out here. There’s not enough of them to bother getting them changed at the bank, and I’m only gonna spend them on vending machine junk if I keep them in my wallet. Gimme something fun to spend them on.”  
You raised an eyebrow and leaned forward against the kitchen island, folding your arms on the faded laminate as you considered his dilemma. “There’s the arcade. Or plenty of bars that’ll take them in exchange for cheap booze. Or the strip club. Plenty of lovely ladies there that’ll take those notes off your hands for you. Just wash your hands before touching your face or eating anything.”   
Clint smirked, and there was something almost predatory in the way he looked at you, but the threat was dampened by the mischievous crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Or you could save me the effort of having to put proper pants on to leave the house and lie to Lou and Carl about how you really wound up with a pocketful of dollar bills. I promise, I'll never tell.” He held his hands up innocently, and you knew he was only joking, but you were accepting his challenge before you could stop yourself.  
“You promise? You'll never tell?” you simpered, cocking an eyebrow at him as you pushed off from the bench top and slowly stalked towards him, dragging your toes along the weathered wood floor, waiting for him to call your bluff. You weren't sure you really wanted him to, though.  
Clint didn't say anything. He was frozen, eyes wide and mouth just slightly ajar enough to let the squeak in his throat escape.  
“I'm not hearing a promise to keep this to ourselves, Barton.”  
You shocked yourself with the confidence in your voice, but you were still expecting him to suddenly burst into laughter so you could burst into laughter too at the absurdity of it all.   
He still hadn't said anything, unless you counted the strange rumbling groan that almost sounded confused, like it was objection losing the war against desire.   
You closed the small distance between the two of you, and reached a hand out to flatten your palm against his chest, letting the fabric curl between your fingers as you teased your bottom lip between your teeth. Being this close to him almost overwhelmed you with his addictively sweet scent, and you could feel his heart drumming furiously against his sternum beneath your hand. You expected him to grab your hand and push you away, but instead, his hands tangled themselves in your hair, and for the longest moment it was like time ceased to exist. Clint tilted his face closer to yours, and your lips parted slightly, ready to catch his.  
“You're still going to earn the green, you know? I'm not giving you a ten dollar tip just for a kiss.”  
The look of indignation on your face elicited raucous laughter from the archer, and the sound ignited the stubborn need to one-up him as you clenched your jaw and yanked him by his shirt to spin him around and shove him forcefully towards the couch. He stumbled backwards into his seat as his knees connected with the piece of furniture, a stunned look hooking his jaw open.  
Without a word, you fished your phone from your pocket and searched your favorite Spotify playlist, a gleeful smirk quirking at your lips as you pressed play. You tossed your phone onto Clint's lap as the drumbeats came to life, paving the way for the guitar and bass as you point at the dumbstruck man gawking at you motionlessly as your hips swayed provocatively to the music's rhythm.  
“Never issue a challenge you don't want fulfilled, Barton.”  
“What makes you think I don't want this?”  
Missing a beat, you considered those words, and the way he practically moaned them. But, you found the beat again, and determinedly took a few steps closer to the man who for six years had occupied every fantasy you could dream up. Your hips swung from side to side, and as you grew more confident, your hands flitted to the buttons on your shirt.  
With each button that popped open to reveal a little more of the skin beneath, Clint breathes a little deeper until you could hear the groans of impatience and exasperation lacing every exhalation. His knuckles gripped the edge of the tattered, lumpy couch until they glowed white with the effort.  
“Fuck this.”  
You heard the exclamation but had no time to react to it before his hands were on your waist, pulling you onto his lap as his lips danced over your own. You could taste coffee on his tongue, and the bitterness had never tasted so good. Moans dribbled from both of you as clothes flew to the floor and hands explored revelations of velveteen flesh, muscles contoured from years of hard work, scars serving as reminders of battles long past, and freckles that had been hiding beneath layers of fabric.  
You devoured each other until you were a mewling mess, and Clint was grunting with primal need as his sweat slicked skin slid against your own with one final greedy thrust of his hips.  
As he collapsed against you on the couch, snatching breaths between moans of residual ecstasy, he peered at you wordlessly. There was a storm of thoughts behind his dazzlingly blue eyes, and when he spoke, it was the last thought you'd expected him to actually voice.  
“I think I actually do fucking love you.”


End file.
